


Out of Sight, Out of Mind

by mevima



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age II
Genre: Abuse, Hand injury, Horror, M/M, Mental Breakdown, Self-Harm, Sensory Deprivation, Solitary Confinement, Suicide mention, tranquility mention
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-03
Updated: 2015-09-03
Packaged: 2018-04-18 18:54:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,393
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4716794
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mevima/pseuds/mevima
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Snapshots of Anders' mental state during his year of solitary confinement. Please do regard the warnings.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Out of Sight, Out of Mind

**Author's Note:**

> This is my attempt to show what it may have been like for Anders during a full year of solitary confinement. I don't think most people understand just how bone-chillingly horrifying solitary is, how deeply it can change a person and how much damage it leaves behind. Please forgive me for any misunderstanding or misrepresentation. Tense fluctuation is purposeful.
> 
> One bit of dialogue I found important, from a conversation with Sebastian in DA2:  
> Anders: It's not about being beaten or raped by a templar— that does happen, but I've been fortunate.
> 
> A few references:  
> [Solitary Description](http://www.wired.com/2013/07/solitary-confinement-2/)  
> [Anders Timeline (wyvernia)](http://wyvernia.tumblr.com/post/127422294895/anders-timeline-at-kinloch-hold)
> 
> Thanks to draegaa for helping me finish and providing feedback!

The door closing behind me was the loudest thing I'd ever heard.

They've put me in "solitary confinement." I've seen it, sometimes, where they put a mage away for days at a time, as punishment for some infraction or other. Disgusting. Poor things always come back a little wild-eyed. I guess _I'll_ be that poor thing now, huh?

I was dragged into the Tower bloody and limping after my latest escape attempt - the sixth time I actually made it out of the Tower, along with countless aborted tries - Maker, but I'm terrible at staying gone - and threw me into this tiny cell with no light, no windows, no comforts. A bucket in the corner and a flap in the door, for food, I assume. It's all rather annoying, really. How long can they actually keep me in here? These tight four walls. I can stand, and I can take two steps in either direction.

A year, they said, but that's impossible. A whole bloody year? Nobody would survive that. The Templars say things like that to scare us mages into submission.

It's dark, nearly pitch black except for the flickers of light through the crack in the door that must come from a torch in the hallway outside. And it's quiet, not even the clank of armor outside any more. I can't hear the rest of the Tower from down here, and the silence already rings in my ears. They must have left me unguarded, knowing the heavy padlock on the door and magical entombment would keep me from escaping.

Out of all of it, it's being cut off from the Fade that bothers me the most. I can't even conjure a weak magelight, which only yesterday was as natural as breathing. I tried. I stretched for the Fade and even though I've been hit by Templars' silence before - too many times - it's not the same. I'm not drained of mana, but as far as the Fade is, I know it's there somewhere, but I can _barely_ feel it. Just the hint of magic teasing the edges of my mind.

They can't keep me here for a year. A month maybe. That would be stretching it. They can't.

 

*

 

Last night was awful. I've gotten bad sleep before, but a full night cramped into a tiny room with no sense of time and the close, disgusting smell of your own nearby waste is probably going to make the top of my list, right above "three hours in a filthy barn next to a dozen restless horses." I hardly slept, but of course there's no way for me to tell how long I was actually under. With little room, I was tossing as much as I could, restless, waking up so very often. I'm still exhausted but there's no reason to sleep. Not much reason to be awake, either. Not much to do here. I idly wonder if someone can die of boredom.

 

*

 

I think... it's been a week. It's already hard to tell, without any way to keep track of it and no changing light, no patterns to reference. The light doesn't even change, just that tiny bit of flickering torchlight around the door. I think they feed me once a day, so... yes. It must have been seven days since they cut me off from the light, the air, and the Fade and locked the door behind me.

For the first time since I was brought here, they opened the door. The light was bright and painful, but a welcome reminder of the outside world. I tried to talk to the Templar bringing me food. That was a bloody mistake. I asked for an apple to go with my gruel. Thanked her for bringing gruel this time instead of porridge, for a change of pace. Anyway I think it was the same food as always - something mushy and awful and bland. I was just trying to joke. She...

I would say she ignored me, but without saying a sodding word, she punched me in the head.

It wasn't a hard knock. It didn't even really hurt, just did what she wanted - shut me up. It hit me then, nearly as much as the physical blow, that I am simply _less_ to these people. I've known it, of course, we all know that the Templars generally don't give a damn about anyone in their dubious "care," but it was never driven home quite so thoroughly, that they don't think of me as a _person_. I doubt they even think I deserve to be fed, and only do it out of a sense of duty.

So I watched in silence as she finished her chores, putting an identical empty bucket in the old one's place and taking away the stack of dirtied trays with a distant grimace. She never looked at me, other than that one strike.

My life, my existence - they mean nothing in here. I hope this doesn't go on for much longer.

 

*

 

I'm so fucking bored. There's nothing here to do but think, or try to amuse myself somehow. I've sung all the songs I know, but I'm not given enough water and my throat aches when I use my voice too long. I could pace, or exercise, but I can't see and there's hardly room to walk before I have to turn around again. Sometimes I draw on the floor with my fingers, but I can't see what I'm doing and anyway, it devolves into random circles that I can't seem to stop tracing. I remember stolen moments, in the Tower, in the world outside, with Karl. It's been years since they sent him to Kirkwall, but I miss Karl. I wonder how he's doing.

Right before he left, I really thought he would say it, you know? It's not something you do, not in the Circle, but... we had something. I was almost happy, while we were together. I kept tracing out possible escape routes, memorizing passageways, storing little stashes of food and clothing - just in case - but I never brought myself to do anything about it, not while I had Karl and Karl had me.

He almost said it. I had a few stolen moments while he was packing, only an hour between when they told him he was being transferred and when they would take him away. I skipped my class. Let them punish me for it. He looked up at me with his hands buried in his tiny travel bag, filled with the few small possessions a mage is allowed to have, and I watched his lips part - and then he shook his head and went back to it. He kissed me - one long, desperate goodbye - but he said nothing. It wouldn't have made a difference if he had. I just wish... I can't let myself wish.

 

*

 

She comes back once a week. Once a day there are footsteps and a tray of food. Once a week there are different footsteps and the Templar takes my filthy bucket and replaces it, and never looks at me. I don't try to talk to her any more. It never resulted in anything but pain. I only stare at the novel concept of another living being and wonder what her voice sounds like. Where she is when she's not here. I giggle, at that, absurdly fantasizing that as soon as she closes the door, and her footsteps fade into the distance, she disappears into the Void. She is only here to serve me. She glares at my giggle, and I swallow it in Fear.

 

*

 

In the flickering, distant light I can almost see the mess I've made of my hands. I don't know how long I was scrabbling at the door, but the rage and panic have faded away and left a dull nothingness, except for the pain. Oh... the pain is almost glorious. It gives me something to focus on, something to think about other than the dark, the crushing isolation, the numb echo in my ears and the roar in my head - even as I thrust down the thought that I may have permanently damaged myself. My nails are ragged - broken down to the quick, all of them. My fingertips are scraped and bloody. My knuckles and the fleshy area under my thumbs are... bitten, I think. I must have bitten them. It's a mess of pain and blood, and it's all I can think about, and I'm grateful.

 

*

 

I've stopped eating. Why should I eat? Why should I _live_? I am buried, crushed, forgotten, insane, I must have gone insane and I will never be free again. Never the same. There's nothing in here to kill myself with or I would have. I tried opening my wrists with my teeth but it only hurt too much, I couldn't get far enough - I'm a coward. I thought of throwing myself against the walls, beating my head against them. I doubt it would work. There's a constant dull ache in my stomach from how little I eat anyway, how long could it take to starve to death?

 

*

 

I don't know how long I tried to starve myself. I guess I can't see it through, though. I'm just a coward. Made of Fear. Probably attract Fear demons if I could reach the Fade. But... there is this... cat. It came in through the flap. I don't know how it can stand it in here. Maker, it must smell awful. I can't smell anything any more.

He. I think the cat's a he. I'll name him Mr. Wiggums. It's a ridiculous name and I don't care. I could use something ridiculous.

The cat reminded me that _there is something outside_. There is a world outside these four walls and I... I want to be back in it. He curled up in my lap and I touched his soft fur, so different from anything I've felt or seen or experienced in so long that I cried. So warm. So innocent. I ran my hands over his purring form and then I picked up the stale oatmeal and forced it down my throat, helped by the half-cup of water.

 

*

 

It's not every day Mr. Wiggums comes through that little food door. It seems like he only comes when I've stopped eating, or maybe I only eat when he comes. He reminds me there's something to go back to, something to wait this out for. How long has it been? How long will I stay here? Sometimes it feels like the answer to both is "forever." Maker, they said a year, I have no idea how long it's been. I breathe in his scent, I run my filthy, ruined hands through his fur, I revel in his purring like it is a religious experience, something granted to me from the beyond. Sweet Andraste, thank you. Thank you.

 

*

 

Maker please make me Tranquil I long to feel nothing I cannot feel this way I don't want to feel I can't I can't I can't _oh please_

 

*

 

I miss the wind. I miss the rain and the grass and the smell of dirt and the clouds and the trees and the mud.

I miss the outdoors but I even miss the Circle. I miss the books and the inkwells and the classes and the tables but oh yes do I miss the _people_ \- the mages, every last one of them, snide, beautiful, flirtatious, angry, resigned, cheerful, damaged. I am so, so damaged.

Andraste's sweet glory, I even miss the Templars. The frightening clank of a patrol in the hall in the night while we slept. The occasional nod of silent support. The familiar armor that told me exactly where my place in the world was meant to be and would always be no matter how I struggled.

And oh Maker please, I miss Karl. I try not to think about him but my thoughts always come back - he was the closest friend I ever had in the Circle. I can't see outside these four walls, I can't even imagine, but I can see his face, his smile sometimes in the dark, a gift from the depths of my numb mind. Oh, Karl. Maker preserve you from the pain of knowing about this. Please don't know what's happened. Please imagine me free and always running.

Four walls (step one two), flickering light and a bucket. There's nowhere to run.

 

*

 

I can handle this. I can handle this. I can take however many days they give me and I will _live_ and I will _thrive_ and I will _throw it back in their sodding faces_ while I _rip the Circle apart._

My breathing is loud in the darkness and I suddenly unclench my hands, prying ragged nails from where they've embedded themselves. Instead I bury my face in my palms, and sob, and scream through my too-dry throat.

I will handle this I will I will I will I will get out of here

I will get out of here _sane_ and I will get out of here _well_ if it _sodding kills me_

 

*

 

They left me here they FUCKIN left me here I don't know how long it's been or how long I will stay - years and years for the rest of my life until the end of time - it's gonna be forever, they forgot about me and I'll never leave these small dark damp walls step one two WALL step one two WALL I can't see my hands but my palms, my wrists, my arms, they taste like filth, I'm swimming in it, I'm rough and dirty and broken down and I will never see the sun again

My nails rake everywhere and I scream and scream and barely hear the door slamming in the distance

 

*

 

they let me out - they _let_ me _out_ \- clanking armor and the open door is so bright, out unfolding into the light - bright, so bright, and voices and - i can hardly walk, i fall so they lift me, they drag me out like they dragged me in - everything is so loud and bright and strange. so many people. colors. sounds. i think they say i'm free- i -

it's so loud

it's so _glorious_

everything is so open and i'm so small

i don't know how to be free any more


End file.
